Crisis Control
by Halcris
Summary: Doyle has a period of doubt, but comes through it in his own way.


**Crisis Control.**

The place the man had chosen to retreat to, could hardly be designated any longer as a 'building'. The roof had long gone. The three walls left standing had gaping holes where there had once been large windows. The fourth wall had crumbled to half its height.

Nature was rapidly taking over. Wild honey-suckle, prickly briars and ivy were fast coating the crumbling masonry. The floor was a carpet of grasses and weeds, and the pretty pink of rose-bay willow-herb was everywhere.

The man had retreated towards the back wall, dragging the frightened child with him. The gun in his hand was being waved wildly, pointing sometimes towards the approaching police, and sometimes at the petrified little girl he was gripping so tightly.

Doyle moved in, to crouch beside the Inspector in charge, both sheltering behind the low near wall. He produced his I.D. card, and identified himself. The Inspector readily accepted C.I 5's authority, and awaited orders. Secretly he was rather relieved to pass the responsibility on, as he'd never encountered a situation like this before.

"What do you know about this man ?," was Doyle's first question.

"His name's Pete Gorman," the man replied. "He's a tough customer, - several counts of G.B.H ! Mostly against women."

Nasty piece of work, thought Doyle, as the policeman continued.

"We were alerted by a neighbour, who heard screams and shots coming from the house next door. We broke in and found the bodies of two women, Gorman's ex-wife and her mother. But Gorman had legged it out the back way, taking the child with him."

"His child ?, asked Doyle.

"Well, said the Inspector, "He's been heard to declare loudly in the pub that she's not, but I don't really know."

Adopting a respectful tone, he asked, "We thought this was a 'domestic'. May I ask why C.I. 5 is interested ?

"He's a known 'pusher'," replied Doyle. "We have a large number of them under surveillance, hoping they'll lead us to larger fish, dealers and suppliers, and through them onto the big men, the importers."

A frown crossed his face as he continued. "We lost one of our lads a while ago. It should have been a straightforward pick-up for questioning, but something went wrong, and he was killed. It's made us keener to find and sort out those behind it."

The inspector nodded in understanding. Losing one of your own was a strong incentive.

"What do you want us to do ?, he asked.

"He's obviously very unstable," said Doyle. "We must try to calm the situation. I've sent for a trained negotiator. My team-mate is bringing him here. Tell your men not to attempt to get any closer. He's not going anywhere for the moment."

He eased his cramped position a little.

"I'm going to creep round the back, if I can, so that I can see him more clearly, to assess what he's likely to do. And," he added grimly, "to take him out if I really have to."

Keeping a careful eye on the window gaps, Doyle began to ease his way round the outside of the crumbling edifice.

The jobs we get, he thought morosely. Through the next space he caught a glimpse of the child's tear-stained face. Poor little kid, he thought. Does she know her mother and grandmother are dead ? Did she see him do it ? He won't hurt his own child, surely ! But then he remembered the Inspector's words. If he doubted whether she was his, it wouldn't bother him, would it ?. And he'd already killed !

He moved very slowly through the grass and brambles, endeavouring to make no revealing sound, and merely wincing as the thorny bushes scratched his hands. He was managing pretty well, had reached and rounded the first corner, and was now moving along the back wall, getting nearer to the gunman, and his poor little hostage.

And then it all went wrong !

A disturbed wood-pigeon broke out of a nearby bush, and flew away with a loud squawk, and a great fluttering of wings.

Startled, the man looked round, and got a glimpse of Doyle through one of the window-gaps. He gave an enraged yell, and before anyone could stop him, pushed the girl away from him, and fired a shot.! A second shot rang out as he turned the gun on himself, and his body dropped to the ground on top of the fallen child.

Doyle froze in disbelief, and then dropped to his knees to lean his head against the crumbling wall before him. This was a disaster ! That frightened child was dead, and it was all his fault !

He should have waited ! More experienced help might have eased the situation. The guilt he felt was overwhelming him. How had he got so sure of himself that he thought he could sort everything out his way ?

The black mood that had been dogging him since Toby's death, instantly intensified.

Suddenly, he knew he had to get away from here, before he cracked completely, and did or said something irreversible.

He scrambled to his feet, and charged back through the undergrowth, heedless of the noise he was making now. As he reached the road, his team-mate Bodie was there, with another man, presumably the negotiator, now no longer needed.

Quickly noting the stricken look on his friend's face, Bodie grabbed Doyle's arm, and tried to stem his headlong rush.

"What happened, Ray ?," he asked anxiously.

But his mate was in no mood to explain. He angrily threw off Bodie's restraining hand, and dashed on. He reached his car, and climbed in, slamming the door. He 'revved' the engine furiously, and then was away in a cloud of dust, leaving Bodie staring helplessly after him.

What is wrong with him, Bodie thought to himself ? I've never seen him so upset ! Ignoring his instinct to chase after his friend, he turned his attention to helping the police inspector deal with the situation. Besides, he thought, the mood he's in, I'd never catch up with him. I wonder where he's going ?

He would have been very surprised if he'd known the answer to that one.

Doyle drove furiously, his emotions in a complete turmoil, his every instinct just to get away as far as possible from the scene he'd just left. After a few moments he realised that he was driving dangerously, both to himself and the public at large, and modified his pace. But he knew exactly where he was going.

At last he drew up in a quiet lane beside a field, bordered by a small copse of trees, and was very relieved to find there what he'd hoped to see, several parked caravans. A benevolent land-owner allowed this group of gypsies to park there whenever they wished, for these were not 'travellers' but true Romanies. Doyle had encountered the group years ago when he was in the police force, had taken a liking to them, and had paid them friendly visits several times since. They were politely pleasant, but quiet and reserved, and never caused any trouble to others.

He climbed over the gate, and approached. A tanned young man, chopping wood, saw him, recognized him, and waved a friendly greeting. Ordinarily, Doyle would have stopped to chat with him, to enquire after his family, but today he was not in the right mood. His need was too urgent.

"Ashanti ?," he asked tersely. "Is she here ?"

Sensing the urgency in Doyle's manner, the man was quick to respond, and pointed to a caravan set in a corner close to the wood. Doyle hurried forward, and found the one he was seeking.

She was sitting on the steps of her van, her still-nimble fingers busy platting a silken cord. She looked up, and was quick to see the signs of stress in her visitor's face. She laid aside the work she had been doing, and patted the wooden step beside her in welcoming fashion. Doyle quickly took the place she offered, and sank down beside her.

Ashanti had once been very beautiful, and although the years had lined her face, and put silver streaks in her dark hair, her classic features had defied the onset of age, and she now had a lovely serene countenance, and an air of peace and calm.

Just sitting beside her, Doyle felt himself start to relax and regain the control he had temporarily lost. She regarded him with her deep dark eyes, and he felt as if she was already reading his mind, and was soothing its turmoil.

She laid her gentle hand on his, and for a while neither said a word. Then she spoke in her soft velvety voice. "Tell me," she said, very quietly.

At first, Doyle could not respond. Then, like a torrent bursting through a dam, it all came pouring out, his grief about the child, his anger at the way things had gone, but most of all the blame he was heaping on himself, for, as he put it, the unnecessary death of an innocent. When he had finished, he felt drained, but oddly relieved.

Ashanti's dark eyes had watched him intently as he had unburdened himself, and had registered every emotion that had flashed across the expressive face. For a while she said nothing. She sat very still, her fingers gently stroking the back of his hand, till she felt his emotional turmoil gradually settle and fade away.

Then she spoke gently. "Two questions," she murmured, as her dark eyes gazed into his steely-blue ones and held his attention.

"Was yours the hand that held the gun ?. Did your finger press the trigger ?" As she had expected, she got a whispered 'No' to both questions.

"Then," she said, quietly but firmly, "Leave blame where it is due. Go back to the good work you do, work which saves lives, and do it as well as you can."

After a few murmured words of thanks, Doyle got up and left. She had made him feel better, as he had known she would. He wasn't happy with what had happened, but he could cope with it now. He got into his car and sped back the way he had come. He would have to go and talk to his boss, and that would not be pleasant. It might even cost him his job !

Bodie had been taken aback by his friend's behaviour, but had quickly recovered, and had taken charge of the situation. In co-operation with the Inspector, everything necessary had been dealt with, and he was now on his way back to Headquarters, trying to work out what to say to his boss, and wondering where his mate was.

Then, quite suddenly, he spotted his car, a few vehicles ahead of him, making in the same direction. He re-acted rapidly. Using his consummate driving skills, and his authority to break the rules of the road if necessary, he overtook the intervening motors, and finding a convenient lay-by, intercepted his friend's car, and pushed it to a standstill.

He jumped out, and ran to the stationary car. Reluctantly, Doyle wound the window down. Bodie could tell, by the closed look on his face that he wasn't in the mood for their usual light-hearted banter. But then, neither was he. So he got straight to the point.

"Ray," he said briskly, "I don't know where you've been, and I'm not asking. But there are things you need to know. First, the child isn't dead. She's in hospital, an aunt is with her, and they say she should recover well."

He was rewarded by the look of relief on his friend's face. "And," he added, "I've covered for you. "I told the Inspector you'd been called away on urgent business elsewhere, and we cleared up everything together."

Doyle looked a bit taken aback by this second piece of information.

"I'll have to tell Cowley," he said doubtfully.

"Why ?," demanded Bodie. "You don't want to get a black mark from him, do you ? And, if you do say anything, I'll be in trouble too, for I've lied for you."

Doyle pondered this. His mate had as good as laid his job on the line for him. He couldn't throw his loyalty back in his face, could he ? But with his innate honesty, his conscience was bothering him.

Bodie went on persuasively, "Besides, he'll want to know where you've been, and I've a feeling you'd rather not tell him."

That's true, Doyle admitted to himself.

"Come on," said his mate. "We'll keep it our secret. Let's go and make out our report together."

This they did, and to their great relief nothing more was heard of the matter. The police Inspector had evidently accepted Bodie's story, and hadn't even mentioned Doyle's sudden departure in his report.

Doyle's conscience bothered him quite a bit, but he finally convinced himself that keeping quiet was the best option in the circumstances, and gradually the 'angst' faded.

He made several enquiries about the injured child, and was relieved to hear that the little girl was recovering well, and was even looking forward to a new life with her aunt and her cousins, well out of London.

Cowley, head of C.I.5, left his office, and strode purposefully down the corridor, towards the duty-room. Just as he reached the door, the man he'd been looking for emerged.

"Ah, Bodie," said Cowley, "I'd like a word with you."

"Yes, sir ?," replied Bodie, racking his brain for anything he'd done, or hadn't done, that might have merited his boss's attention. But the question Cowley threw at him took him completely by surprise."

"Is Doyle all right ?," he asked.

"He's fine, sir," replied Bodie. He pointed down the corridor, adding "He just gone to Records."

"I've been told he's not up to par," said Cowley bluntly. "He's not ill or injured, is he ?"

"No, sir, he's not," said Bodie firmly. "We had a run-in with some 'heavies' this morning when we picked up a dealer, and he was on top form then. He's quicker than me," he added enviously.

"That's because he doesn't eat 'junk food'," retorted Cowley, who knew more about his men's habits than they suspected.

"Unkind," said Bodie

"Well, keep an eye on him," ordered Cowley, and returned to his office.

Bodie went back into the duty-room, in a puzzled state of mind, and thought about his friend. Actually he'd been covering up a bit for him, for he did know that his mate hadn't been quite his usual self for some time now.

Physically he was fine, and had been dealing with work with his usual efficiency, but he was very quiet and uncommunicative, and the usual banter they shared had been missing for a while. They hadn't been out socially together either. Doyle had refused several invitations to foursome dates, and he didn't think he was seeing anyone at the moment.

Cowley used the internal phone and summoned the man who seemed, in his quiet way, to know everything that was going on, and had alerted him about Doyle in the first place.

"Bodie doesn't seem to know anything," he reported.

"I'm not surprised," replied Murphy. "They work extremely well together, but they're as different as 'chalk and cheese'."

"True," agreed Cowley.

"I did hear," went on Murphy, "that Doyle was a bit upset when that child nearly got killed. Blamed himself."

"Aye, he's inclined to do that," admitted Cowley.

"Trouble is," said Murphy cheerfully. "Our Ray's a 'thinker' as well as an action man. I'll try and get him on his own, and see if he's got something on his mind." He got his chance a day or two later, when he found Doyle alone in the rest room.

"Are you all right, Ray ?," he asked in his friendly manner, "You seem a bit down these days."

"Yes, I'm O.K," replied Doyle. "I'm afraid I let that incident with the child get to me a bit."

"But she's recovering well," said Murphy re-assuringly.

"Yes, I'm pleased about that," said Doyle. "But it just sort of seemed to me like 'the final straw', after some of the other things I'd been thinking about."

"Tell me," encouraged Murphy, knowing that it would do his friend good to talk about it.

"I suppose it started when we lost Toby," mused Doyle.

"We do lose men from time to time," said Murphy. "It's par for the job, and we just have to cope with it."

"I usually can," replied Doyle, "but Toby was so young, only 26, and he was shaping up well. It was his first solo assignment, and he was so excited about it." There was a moment's companionable silence, as they both remembered their lost colleague.

"It seemed such a waste," went on Doyle, "and it started me thinking about so many other things we do, that seem to be a waste. For instance, there are so many youngsters hooked on drugs these days. So we have a 'blitz', and take out several dealers and pushers. And what happens ?," he added vehemently, "In a few days they're replaced by others !"

"I'm afraid that's true," admitted Murphy.

"It seems as if we're only scratching the surface," continued Doyle. Now that he had started it was all coming out. "And take Tildsley Street," he went on. "We took out that 'protection' racket that was making those small shop-keepers' lives a misery. And yet I heard a few days ago, that one of the shopkeepers had been badly beaten up, and his shop damaged, because he tried to resist a new gang coming in."

"Ah," said Murphy brightly, "but I bet you haven't heard yet, that Barton went in with a squad yesterday, and sorted that out again."

"Well, I'm glad about that !," exclaimed Doyle, and seemed to brighten up at that bit of news.

"You've got to look at it this way," said Murphy, "It may seem as if we're only tackling 'the tip of the iceberg', but every success C.I 5 has, and we've had plenty, makes London a cleaner, better place, doesn't it ?"

Doyle pondered these sensible words."You're right, of course," he said at last, "I've been letting the dark side of it get me down, instead of considering the bigger picture." He gave his friend a sudden smile.

"It's been good talking to you Murphy. It's good of you to be concerned about me, but you needn't worry any longer. I'm fast getting over it, I think. It'll just take one mission to work out really well, and I'll be back on form."

"Well, I hope it comes along soon," was Murphy's only comment.

They parted company then, and went to get on with their work. I feel a lot better, thought Doyle to himself. Unburdening his feelings to Murphy, added to the calming influence of his visit to Ashanti, which he would never reveal to anyone, had brought him back to a better frame of mind.

A week later, Doyle was on his way back from an assignment, which had turned out to be a very pleasant day out. On Cowley's orders, he had driven right down to the south coast, to Pevensey Bay, to interview a long-retired M.I.6 man. His boss knew that somewhere in the man's memory was the information he now needed to break up a very nasty covert organization.

Doyle had found a very pleasant gentleman, now in his 80's, still very straight-backed and upright, due no doubt to his military background, and despite his years, very alert and intelligent. They had spent several hours, sitting on the veranda of his lovely home, with its view of the sea sparkling in the sunshine. Subtle encouragement from Doyle, and the right questions, prepared for him by his boss, had elicited all the information that Cowley had so hoped to find.

Now Doyle was on his way back, feeling that it had been a very successful day. His host had provided a very pleasant light lunch, but now he was looking forward to making his report, then going home for a more substantial meal, a shower and an early night.

Relaxed as he was, the sudden 'bleep' of the car-phone startled him. He picked it up and answered it. It was his boss.

"Where are you ?," demanded Cowley.

"On my way back," replied Doyle.

"I know that," said Cowley, rather impatiently. "Which area ?"

"Just coming into Epsom," responded Doyle, a bit puzzled.

"Good," said his boss. "Now, do you know a big house called 'Fourways', Judge Halton's place ?."

"I know roughly where it is," Doyle replied.

"How far are you from there ?," asked his boss.

"Five or ten minutes," replied Doyle.

"Right, make for there as fast as you can," ordered Cowley. "I'm sending back-up, but you're a lot nearer."

"Why ? ….," began Doyle, but was interrupted.

"Just listen," said Cowley brusquely. "There was a minor break-out from Pentonville last night, and one of those 'on the loose' is Rory Fanzio. When he was sentenced, he made threats against Judge Halton, who sent him down. The judge is at the Old Bailey this week, and is staying at digs in town. He's just had a phone call from Fanzio, who said he'd been to the court, but security there was too tight, so he was going after Halton's wife instead !"

"Has she been warned ?," asked Doyle.

"The judge tried to phone her," said Cowley, "but there's no answer. It's the maid's night off, and she often goes out to the pictures. Mrs. Halton hasn't been very well, and has been retiring to bed early. The judge thinks she's probably taken the phone off the hook."

Doyle had already taken the right turnings to lead him towards the house.

"I've alerted the local police, of course," continued Cowley, "But they are dealing with a couple of bad accidents, so could be some time."

Doyle was now in the right select residential area. "I'm almost there," he reported.

"Be careful," warned Cowley. "Fanzio might be there already."

A few minutes later, Doyle pulled his car to a halt by the kerb outside a large house. The name 'Fourways' was revealed on a gate post. He got out of the car, eased his gun in its holster, and walked quickly up the short drive to the house. It was early evening, and beginning to get dusk, but the front of the building showed no lights anywhere. Avoiding the gravel path, and walking only on the grass, he moved round towards the back of the house. He eased round the corner carefully, and glanced upward. There was a light shining from an upper window out over a balcony. That was most likely to be the bedroom in use, he thought.

But there was something else !

In that twilight moment when visibility is poor, it was difficult to see clearly, but it looked as if someone was climbing up the profuse wisteria that covered the walls of the house. Strands of new growth had come loose and were waving about in the wind making it hard to see properly.

It would be difficult, even with his accuracy, to be sure of a good shot.!

Doyle made the decision that it would be better to be in the house, and in the room, when the intruder climbed over the balcony to the window.

But he would have to be quick !

He found the side door. Although he did not know it, this was locked but not bolted, as the live-in maid would be back later. But he couldn't waste time attempting to pick the lock. Instead he used a well-practised technique. A flying kick, a crash as the door swung open, and he was in ! He raced through the kitchen, and charged up the stairs, drawing and arming his gun as he went.

A light shining onto a landing told him which room to go for. He shot to a crouch in the doorway, gun poised and ready, just as the figure of a man appeared in the open French windows giving onto the balcony.

Two shots rang out, but only one was accurate. The intruder, his gun still in his hand, who had been silhouetted against the remaining evening light, staggered backwards, hit the balcony rail, and toppled over ! A nasty fall, maybe, but he was dead before he hit the ground.

The lady, who had been sitting in the big white bed, gave a small shriek and fainted clean away.

Doyle stood up slowly from his crouching position, and bent down to retrieve the gun that had been knocked from his hand by Fanzio's wild shot.

There were noises from downstairs. A clatter as the front door was unlocked and pushed open, and the sound of feet pounding up the stairs The back-up had arrived.!

Ahead of the others, Bodie charged up the stairs and into the bedroom. He hurried towards the still figure on the bed. But to his great relief Mrs. Halton showed no sign of injury, and the pristine white bed showed no stains.

He turned to look round the room. There was no-one else there. He went back to the doorway. "Doyle, where are you ?," he called loudly.

"In here ," came the reply.

Following the sound, Bodie entered the large white-tiled bathroom. Doyle was sitting on the closed-down toilet seat, one hand clutching his other arm.

"What on earth are you doing in here ?," demanded Bodie. Then he spotted the red seeping through his mate's fingers.

"You're injured," he exclaimed.

"It's only a nick," said Doyle, "but it's bleeding quite a lot." He pointed to the few red splashes on the pale grey marble floor.

"Have you seen the carpet in that bedroom ?," he went on. "Palest cream, wall to wall ! If I'd bled all over that, it would cost an arm and a leg to get it cleaned, and I need all mine, thank you very much," he added, with a grin.

Bodie's quick eyes spotted a box of tissues. He pulled out a handful, formed them into a neat wad, and went to help his friend. He pushed his hand away and applied the improvised dressing to the injury, which, he could see, was rather more than 'just a nick'.

"Press on that," he ordered.

But his feeling of concern was lightened by a huge surge of relief. Doyle's jocular words meant that his mate was in teasing mode again, and back to his usual cheerful self.

Whatever the crisis had been in his friend's life, and he felt that there had been one, it was now back under complete control.


End file.
